British summers are usually a washout. A concept without execution complete with freezing winds, undulating grey clouds, and gymnastic rain. 2022 has sent us Brits running 180 degrees the other way, scrambling for some of that elusive air-con. Whether 2022 decides to throw it down, or turn it up another notch, the movies have you covered. Hide from the rain or stick on the fan, and watch these reminders of the usually elusive season.

Summers are for vacations. Even for directors. Woody Allen has managed to chill around Europe for a couple of decades, and even stoic Eric Rohmer must have had a little fun with Pauline at the Beach. Most of these trips are about jettisoning emotional baggage to rekindle romance (As Good As It Gets) or for gawky outsiders to blossom thanks to a ragtag bunch of locals (see The Way, Way Back or The Simpsons’ Summer Of 4ft 2). While it’s comfortable to return to the same old destinations, there is one trip I insist you make.

Before there was Mr Bean, there was Monsieur Hulot. The creation of writer-director Jacques Tati tumbles head over heels with comedy geniuses Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Jackie Chan. Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday (1953) is both title and plot, a two-hour vacation following the titular character’s time at a seaside resort with a weird and wonderful collection of caricatures. Ebert’s snapshot reminiscence catches the magic of the trip: "When I saw the film a second time, the wonderful thing was, it was like returning to the hotel… it was like I was recognizing the people from last year."

Alas, vacations have to end. Mom and Pop return to sticky offices, fish-hooking neckties a little looser for air, while teens cruise neon lit streets in American Graffiti, hike the hills in Stand by Me, or drink away facts and figures on the last day of school in Dazed and Confused. Summer Nights are hot houses for teens, sexual hormones bubbling until they burst into musical numbers about hooking up on the beach, under bleachers, or fixing up cars so fast the ‘chicks will cream’. The Graduate and Call Me By Your Name are familiar pillars of these formative summers, where the inexperienced learns a little more about the world and a lot more about heartbreak, but Alfonso Cuarón may have passed you by.

Cuarón returned to his roots with Y Tu Mamá También (2001), leaving his slick Hollywood training in the dust to hit the twolane blacktop with a semi-realist road-trip about Mexican politics, geography, history, spirituality and culture. Not that the two teens behind the wheel notice. All they care about is living it up while their girlfriends are away, and scoring with the seductive lady in the passenger seat. This creates a fascinating duality, the vitality of the young friends learning about sex and friendship while an omniscient and melancholic narrator accounts for the wider world, as if the journey is already a memory being reminisced. But by who?

If it seems unfair that teens get all the sex, drugs and rock and roll, horror balances out the equation. For every teen that gets lucky, two more get decidedly unlucky. Horror and summer go together like dark nights and those things that go BUMP in ’em. While a cardinal rule (even before the days of Val Lewton), that ‘the horror’ is best concealed in darkness, plenty of filmmakers turn on the lights. The Wicker Man, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Midsommar revel in showing you, with clarity, just what exactly to be afraid of.

Haneke did something a little different. What came out of the darkness wasn’t something with fangs, scales, or tentacles. It was us. Funny Games (1997) (and the subsequent shot for shot American remake) follows two young men who torture a family at their summer home for no reason. Haneke continually twists his knife while pointing an accusing finger squarely through the fourthwall, asking why we watch these kinds of things. It’s a question that lingers long after lights out.

Need a breath of air after that? Tough. As the mercury rises, so does the tension. Can you imagine In The Heat Of The Night set in a shivering Alaskan town? Would 12 Angry Men have the same intensity if the jurors were huddled together like penguins? Heat makes us irritable, prone to volcanic explosions like Lee’s Do The Right Thing, or Schumacher’s Falling Down. Stray Dog (1949) is a masterpiece of the too-damn-hot thriller subgenre from themaster-who-never-misses Akira Kurosawa. During a stifling Tokyo heatwave, a newly-promoted homicide detective (the impossibly cool Toshiro Mifune), has his colt pistol pickpocketed on a crowded trolly. Anticipating the buddy cop picture, Kurosawa's pulp storytelling and impeccable craft reveal a pitch perfect hot-as-hell Japanese noir. Who needs a better reason to stay indoors? Now, let’s all head to the lobby and get ourselves some snacks. What do you fancy? Ice cream?! Are you crazy?! It’s too cold for that!

Jack Wightman occasionally leaves his home either for coffee, the cinema or to browse a bookshop. If you don’t happen to find him there, please send for help – he will most likely be trapped under his book collection.